Sleeping Sand
by Lennonism
Summary: Despite trying to avoid the past, Steven Hyde realizes that one cannot escape his origins unless he is prepared to start completely anew. Only then, through death and birth, can a man expect to find his redemption and possibly save himself in the process


A/N: Hi everyone! This is the prologue to a story that's really just a basic sketch in my mind. So far I have one more chapter written, but the rest is somewhere in the shadowy regions of my imagination and I don't know if I'll be able to satisfactorily set it down. I do know that I'll try to the best of my ability to do so, although I can make no promises. Otherwise, I really hope that you enjoy what I do have and that you can forgive me for any mistakes that I have made. It has been a long time since I have written anything beyond term papers.

Disclaimer: I do not own That '70s Show or anything that The Beatles ever wrote or recorded. Only Michael Jackson's estate can make that claim.

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><p><strong>Prologue<strong>

The shadowed night caressed his skin, allowing Steven Hyde's bruised psyche a moment of respite like the bright light of day could not. Mornings had always seemed too invasive, sun breaking into one's vision as if sat beneath the harsh glare of an interrogation lamp. In the light you were forced to face the truth, to live out the ramifications of all that had transpired the day before, to go through another twelve hours of hell. Fuck all those pansies that pranced around with wide doe eyes, preaching about how every new day was a new start or whatever lame bullshit they were naïve enough to swallow. No, night was the true time of magic. When the sun sunk below the horizon and all the twittering morning-loving, early-rising idiots shut their eyes against the fear of darkness, that was when he felt most content. In the day you were stripped naked—bared. At night you were clothed in the cloak of obscurity, allowed a few sacred hours to yourself, given a few moments to breathe.

Typically, Hyde would have been squandering this time pouring back poison at the nearest seedy bar or drunkenly plowing into some faceless chick that was equally as seedy, trying to distract himself from the honesty that inevitably surfaced whenever the broken man was left alone with himself, but tonight was one of those rare occurrences when he couldn't be bothered with drinking himself into oblivion. Come to think of it, this had been happening more often as of late. Hyde just no longer had the energy, which he thought was a fucking riot since getting pissed didn't exactly require the most skill. Instead, he spent the nights parked in some forgotten field or driving down the emptied highways with the windows rolled down and the hum of the engine washing over his tired limbs. Oftentimes Hyde toyed with the idea of driving full-speed out of the Wisconsin borders or head-on into a sturdy tree—whichever, he wasn't a particularly picky man—but no matter how many times he talked himself into actually doing it, he somehow always ended up turning around and stumbling into the Forman basement. People normally just trusted that he had come in from another night of drinking and gallivanting around Point Place. Hyde didn't correct them.

On bad nights, he bypassed the Forman residence in favor of the poorer side of town. Parking across the street, Hyde would look, caught in some perverted trance, at the decrepit monument of his broken childhood. On even worse nights he would go inside. The place was still empty, no one having been foolish enough or so bankrupt of pride to have even attempted to move in. Even the withered and haggard bodies of the homeless preferred to stay away. Maybe they somehow sensed the trauma that had occurred within. Everything looked exactly as he had left it that day that seemed so long ago when he had packed up and left, when the world for the briefest of instances seemed to be full of possibilities. However, more often than not, Hyde ended up in the record store as he was now, taking care of some small matters of business in peace and quiet. Others could say what they wanted, but there was no denying that Steven Hyde was a good businessman, even when he put in the minimal amount of effort possible. The fact boggled even his own mind.

So, having nursed a solitary beer as he looked over the recent sale reports and inventory records, Hyde made the decision to indulge in some listening pit time and wandered to the various record crates that lined the room. Not satisfied with anything immediately within reach, he walked past the glossy new covers in favor for his own personal box of vinyl, flipping through the soft cardboard until his fingers stilled on the slightly yellowing sleeve of _The White Album_. Feeling drawn to it, he promptly set the second side of the first disc on the player, spun it, and placed the needle gently onto its rotating grooves, turning down the volume until it was just a soft whisper emanating throughout the abandoned room. Yawning, Hyde allowed his head to loll back onto the couch, his sunglasses left on the table in front of him.

And the night progressed in the fashion it always did. His breath evened out as Hyde listened to the music and he let it take him away for just a little while, half-aware of his surroundings. If it had been like any other Tuesday excursion in Grooves he would have waited an hour or so before stopping the record, putting it in its proper place, turning off the lights, locking up, and driving back in silence to his lonely cot. If it had been like any other night, he would have numbly faced the ceiling and tried desperately to shut out his thoughts. If it had been any other night he would have fallen into a dreamless sleep, knowing full well that he had hell to face in the morning. If it had been any other night...

Sometime during one of McCartney's annoyingly infectious love songs, the sharp ringing of the phone shattered the air. Ripped out of his relaxed daze, Hyde sat up straight and glanced at his watch in one fluid motion, noting that it was a ridiculous hour for anyone to be calling. _Four-fourteen. _For some unknown reason, the number burned into his head. Reaching for the phone, Hyde's hands paused for a split second, an indescribable sensation that he had once described to Forman as the feeling he got prior to shoplifting, flooded his system. Regardless, shaking off his stupid doubts, Hyde picked up the hunk of plastic and cradled it to his ear, uttering a gruff, "Hello?" There was nothing but breathing on the other side, halting and unsure. The record changed tracks.

_Half of what I say is meaningless, but I say it just to reach you_

Slightly spooked, he spat out, "Look, if this is some kid that thinks it's a fucking laugh to prank call the store I'm hanging up." About to make good on his threat, the unnamed caller exclaimed, "Wait!" And with that all of the breath was knocked out of Hyde's chest and his hand felt like it was having trouble holding onto the receiver.

There was no word after that, just more breathing, but there was no need for the man on the other end to identify himself. It had been four years since Hyde had last heard that voice. "Bud?"

Knowing that it was time to either talk or give up, Bud Hyde cleared his throat nervously and injected some of the faux enthusiasm into his voice that his "son" detested so much. "Yeah, hey Steven. How's everything?"

Following a terse response, the older man blew out a quavering breath and dropped the act immediately. "Steven, I'm calling from the hospital…" He paused, probably expecting some sort of question or sarcastic retort, but Hyde couldn't formulate one—his vocal cords were paralyzed. "…It's about your mom. She, uh…she's not doing so well." Again he waited for a response that wouldn't come. "The doctors have been checking on her, but they say that they don't know how much longer she's going to live…"

Bile scorched Hyde's throat as his hands began to violently shake, eyes shutting until they were wrinkled slits on his pained face. "And I know you're probably thinking, 'So why is he telling me?' but," and here once again Bud paused, except if Hyde had not been in such a state, ears pounding and heart racing, he would have been able to detect something different in this stop, something more calculating. "But, she is your mother and I thought you'd like to know. I think she'd really like it if you came and saw her for a bit. She's at Blackwater Hospital…"

Unable to handle the one-sided conversation any longer Hyde rasped, "I'll think about it," and hung up.

But he couldn't think; he could barely breathe. All of a sudden it felt like his airway was constricting painfully and he instinctually bent at the waist, cupping his forehead with his palms as his elbows rested on his knees. What the fuck was wrong with him? So what, so Edna was sick. After all the shit she'd done it was a wonder she wasn't already dead. Why did he even fucking care? She was just a lowlife bitch who had made him miserable and left him, twice.

_When I cannot sing my heart, I can only speak my mind_

…And still, even after replaying all of the awful things that she had done in his head and rationalizing away any expected reaction, the storms of his mind didn't quiet and the panicked frenzy of his heart didn't slow.

So, Steven Hyde did what he did best and began to shut down his emotions. He ignored the dull ache of his chest and the burning behind his eyes and got up quickly, shaking off the dizziness that this action prompted.

_So I sing a song of love for_—forgetting about the reverence with which he had previously treated the record, he ripped it off the player and tossed it somewhere onto the couch, picking up his jacket and keys and making it to the door in long, hurried strides. Taking a large swig of his now warm beer, Steven's mind was elsewhere as he drove back to the Formans' at break-neck speed, not realizing he had arrived until he was half way down the basement stairs. Thanking a god he didn't believe in that it was completely empty, Hyde reverted back to his one and only consistent ally and grabbed a bottle of liquor, sucking down pure vodka until he was passed out, spreadeagle on the orange couch. And with that, his breath finally slowed.


End file.
